“Bridal rose and winter jasmine. Traditional. Harmless.”
Sabine stood and began unlacing her gown.
Lysa helped her strip down to skin, then guided her into the bath.
The water was too hot at first, then perfect.
Sabine sank into it and felt her body begin to unknot.
Lysa washed her hair with the careful precision of someone performing a task that mattered beyond function.
“The temple wanted to do this,” Lysa said quietly. “Consecrated attendants. Sacred oils. Ritual blessings.”
“Why did you refuse them?”
“Because every woman in that room would move as if they were preparing a bride.” Lysa’s hands stilled in Sabine’s hair. “I could see them preparing a body.”
Sabine’s throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
“Do not thank me yet.”
Lysa finished washing her hair, then handed Sabine a cloth to wash herself.
The silence felt thick.
Sabine scrubbed her arms, her legs, the places where bruises from the final public trial still marked her skin.
When she was finished, Lysa helped her stand and wrapped her in warmed linen.
The cloth was soft.
Too soft.
Like something meant to comfort the dying.
Sabine stepped out of the bath and let Lysa dry her with hands that were steady until they reached Sabine’s wrist.
Then Lysa paused.
Her fingers traced the edge of the mark.
“Does it hurt?”
“No. It feels warm. Like he is closer than the room allows.”
Lysa’s mouth tightened.
She said nothing, but her hands resumed their work.
The white gown waited on the bed like a threat dressed in silk.
Sabine crossed to it and touched the fabric.
Not rough.
Not coarse.
